Biarritz Plage

Saturday morning, I went to northern Spain to pick up chorizo and wine from a market. There is a good feeling to be had in markets on weekend mornings. Something I miss tremendously about home: meeting K with our matching totes and produce. I spent the rest of the day in a little french coastal town, Biarritz. Not at all used to water like that. It was a happy day. Stupid happy. Wore a dress for the first time since I’ve been in the country, ate a salmon sandwich, admired the Bay of Biscay, read Carson McCuller’s The Ballad of the Sad Cafe from cover to cover, and spied on adolescent boys jumping off cliffs. The swimmers seemed to belong nowhere else in the world besides floating in all that salt. It felt briefly like home (packed the same tote, felt sun and sand) but that fleeing left and something else took its place.